Peace my Hearte's blabb, be ever dumbe;
Sorrowes speak loud without a Tongue:
And my perplexed Thoughts forbeare
To breath your selves in any eare:
Tis scarse a true or manly grief
Which gadds abroad to find releef.

Was ever stomack that lack't meat
Nourish't by what another eat?
Can I bestow it, or will woe
Forsake mee when I bid it goe?
Then I'le beleeve a wounded breast
May heale by shrift, and purchase rest.

But if, imparting it, I doe
Not ease my self, but trouble Two;
Tis better I alone possesse
My treasure of unhappinesse:
Engrossing that, which is my owne
No longer then it is unknowne.

If Silence be a kind of Death,
He kindles grief who gives it breath.
But let it rak't in Embers ly
On thine owne hearth, 'twill quickly dy;
And, spight of fate, that very womb
Which carryes it shall prove its Tombe.